Survival
by madascheese
Summary: Rebuilding a shattered life is the worst aspect of war. With Shepard MIA after the events of the Catalyst, the crew prepare to mourn their loss and return to Earth to face the destruction of their homeworld. Liara can't believe her hero, the love of her life, is dead and is prepared to use all her resources to find her - no matter how changed they might be when they meet again.
1. Ashes

**DISCLAIMER: **All the wonderful characters etc are owned by BioWare/EA - this is for fanfiction purposes only, no money to be made here, move along!

**General notes: **This fic is entirely spoilerrific and takes place at the end of Mass Effect 3. The Reapers have been destroyed, the Normandy is stranded on an unknown garden world and Commander Shepard is alive - barely. Enjoy :)

* * *

A short, sharp gasp for breath lifted the Commander from a sluggish darkness, replacing the deepest serenity with fear, desperation, mourning and life. Her eyes scanned the surroundings; grey rubble of a great city lay in towering, jagged ridges around her, the sky dark, charcoal, holding its breath. The scent of ashes lay thickly in the desolate air above, bitter even in victory, and it seemed for a moment that the whole world had been destroyed, leaving her in a greyish purgatory reserved for the worst of her kind.

Everything hurt – it was the one sensation that anchored her to a sense of reality, a reminder of a former life, of loss and sadness that glimmered dimly in the distance of her mind as more pressing urges occupied her. Her lips parted slightly as the need for air became more pronounced, her mouth dry, covered in grit and dried blood; a cough came without warning and echoed with sombre solitude into stony silence of the world above. She was alone, still, and back on Earth by the look of things, but the memory of how she had come to this place was overshadowed by the magnitude of the events on the Citadel. The boy who haunted her nightmares, the boy that wasn't even a boy at all – how could he have been on Earth, and on the Crucible? He had occupied her thoughts for so long that she couldn't be truly sure that the boy was not a figment of her imagination, the metaphysical embodiment of her efforts to leave no one behind, and the only part of her that was ready to admit that would never be possible. There was so much about the Citadel and the Reapers that she didn't understand; somehow trying to comprehend was worse than admitting that they were beyond all comprehension. To actively consider and study their actions was to step into the thoughts of a race so devoid of mercy that they defied moral logic, attentive only to their endless purpose. It was a fate worse than death.

The hope that it was gone, the war ended and the machines finally dead, burned brightly in her aching chest; the fires of Earth, Palaven and Thessia reminded her of her purpose, driving her to breath more deeply, to move an arm, tilt her aching head. Part of her wanted it to be the end of everything, so she could be handed to an infinite peace she could never experience and be done with it all, carried away on an empty tide where nothing could find her. The long, drawn-out process of rebuilding a shattered life was difficult to endure when even the remains had been burned to the ground. The order to retreat had come after her last bullet was fired into the Reapers' heart, followed by meaningless white noise – radio silence that told her she was presumed killed in action, left alone to die with those she sought to destroy. The need to see her crew, for Liara's soothing words and unbreakable spirit, was unbearable.

A ship screamed overhead, parting the blackening sea of cloud above her. She watched as the blazing engines grew dimmer, knew exactly what the pilot and Commander were doing as the Earth fell swiftly behind them, imagined herself doing the very same on the Normandy – this time, she would leave the world gleaming, reflecting itself on every surface, bustling yet peaceful, not alive with fear and violence as it had been when she left Vancouver. She made peace with the fact that she would have to move, to endure even further pain and emerge, staggering, through torn muscle and broken bones, from the smouldering wreckage. If nothing else, the need for survival in itself was too great for her to perish alone in a goddamned crater. Her fingers twitched, clasped as she willed her bruised fingertips into her palm.

"Small steps." The dry, cracked voice that escaped her lips did not seem like her own. "Easy does it."

* * *

"Liara," a soft, calm voice rang bluntly through the steel door leading to the asari's chambers. "It's Traynor. We need to…the memorial, it's time."

Traynor looked at her feet as they shuffled uncomfortably beneath her, hoping her tone didn't betray her brokenness. A lump clotted uncomfortably in her throat as she swallowed, a suppressed howl brought on by the persistent sadness that had refused to shift since the order came to retreat. The plaque was heavy, lifeless in her tired grip, a cold etching of letters representing everything Commander Shepard was. Except it didn't – a plaque couldn't even begin to describe what the Commander had meant to her, had no way of showing the galaxy how truly exceptional a woman she was. It was less than comforting, the palest of imitations; in the Commander she had found a hero, a confidant as inspirational as she was modest, a committed friend and leader. If thoughts of something more between them had ever swept breathlessly through her mind as she lay, quiet and pensive, in her cabin, they were dismissed as foolish now – fantasies that were both irrelevant and selfish. Her friendship was more than she had expected, and should have been more than enough.

The asari had often been a troublesome complication in those endless contemplations that, despite herself, she couldn't stop revisiting; Liara was the immovable object that rendered any unstoppable force she could offer impossible. Her blushes of pride and affection when Shepard spoke highly of her had been difficult to downplay – if Joker, content to remain holed up in his corner of orange glows and star fields of the cockpit, had been quick to notice and tease her about it, it was safe to assume that Liara knew where her affections lay. Light years from Earth across the black, empty nothingness of space, she'd have gladly welcomed unrequited love for eternity if she could just see the Commander rise, however battered, bloodied and bruised, from the ashes of London.

Another harsh impossibility; a pull of unceasing sadness through her body brought tears to her eyes yet again, an unwelcome response. She steadied herself, wiped her eyes with stubborn impatience – Liara's cabin was unlocked, and the green holo-switch hovered with expectance before her, wavering a little, as if reflecting the weariness and fatigue that had crept into her eyes, seeping into everything that she saw as if her whole world had become a new, soulless and impassive creature waiting to swallow her in its jaws, where she would be trapped in her endless sorrow. Bravery had been hard to come by, but she knew that she must move on with her grief, must do as Shepard would have done and take steps to regroup, to rebuild. Her humanity would keep her sane, the unflappable sail that would see her through the black waters of a life without Shepard; she knew then that she must stay close to herself and her own nature, had to seize that most indomitable human tradition – to honour the dead, in word and deed.

"I'm coming in," she warned.

There was no resistance: the door slid open, then closed behind her, the hissing pistons and gently fizzing circuits oblivious to the tension of mourning that filled both asari and human.

Neither of them moved; Liara sat upright, barely recognisable in her solemn stillness, gazing far past her own reflection in one of the dozen screens before her. There was something of the lost about her, a certain confusion uncharacteristic of the doctor that was both perplexing and unbearably sad.

For the asari, grieving was more difficult that she had anticipated. She had mourned for her Commander, for the woman she loved, for two years after the Collector attack; through every lead she chased, every information broker she threatened, in every endeavour she had taken before and after Shepard had been resurrected, she carried her memories. It had always been for her, after they had shared an unbreakable bond, reaching into each other's consciousness as their physical intimacies became more fervent and impassioned; they were a part of each other, and Shepard was an unshakeable influence in almost every decision she had made. Her grief had been a natural reaction to the rug that had been so cruelly pulled from under her feet after only a year together.

So what prevented her mourning now? It had come so easily last time. She had spent hours staring at the same damn screens, looking for answers in the dark recesses of her own young mind, trying to figure out what it was that stopped her from crying herself to sleep when tiredness fell upon her. She had been left alone since she came back on board after their crash landing, sending messages across the ship by text rather than voice or video, so it was not as if she was under pressure to maintain her normal demeanour. They had all been quite kind to her, considering the urgency of their repairs; Traynor was her first visitor since their crash, and the whole crew had allowed her ample time to piece herself back together.

When Shepard had died, Liara had seen the body herself; she had recovered it herself, had seen to it that it was given to the right people. She was able to let go and live in memories of the saviour of the Citadel, the woman who defeated Saren and Sovereign, the Commander who literally gave her life to protect her loved ones. By the time she had tracked down the body, it wasn't even Shepard anymore – just a burned out shell of a human, empty of life, not even nearly the same. She moved on, worked harder, smarter and faster, kept to herself as she always did. Things slowly returned to normal, though the Commander's rueful smile was never too far from her thoughts.

It wasn't just memories anymore. They lived within each other; they were bondmates in every sense but the term itself, had shared a multitude of adventures and intimacies. They had shared consciousness many times, exchanged memories in the most solemn and profound gift she could give anyone...she deduced it was possible, however unlikely, that Shepard was alive. There was no other explanation as to why she couldn't be left to grieve in peace, though again she couldn't think why or how she could possibly feel the Commander was still alive across the broad emptiness of space. She would not rest until she knew for sure.

"How are the repairs coming along Samantha?"

"Oh fine, yes, thanks," she replied, her hands a little restless as she squeezed her fingers together. "Joker thinks we should be back up in a day or two. Would've been easier if –"

Liara lowered her head a little, a sign of respect she had picked up, without realising, from the human crew she knew so well. "EDI. She was willing to give her life just as the rest of us were. She'll be remembered – I hope Jeff is alright."

It was difficult to know what to say. She had never been too familiar with the asari for numerous reasons, and she'd be lying if she didn't admit that she was a little intimidated.

"He'll be okay," she replied, her platitudes already well worn and fraying at the edges, but sincere nevertheless. "How are you holding up?"

A number of possible answers presented themselves, most of them lies. She looked away from the Specialist for a moment, gathered her thoughts. If there was one other person on the ship lost enough to believe as she did, it was likely to be Traynor. The love she held for Shepard was as palpable as her own.

"Would you sit for a moment?" She gestured to a comfortable seat next to her bed, underneath a window through which the unfamiliar silver glow of two moons fell upon the hard steel floor. The human obeyed, nodded without uttering a word, as Liara seated herself on the edge of the bed.

It was hard to find the words to explain. "I believe Shepard might still be alive."

The sympathetic glance Traynor offered was not exactly what she had expected; perhaps, Liara thought, it was normal for humans to believe that their loved ones never died – it was likely she was meaning to be kind, though that naturally inferred disbelief. The silence persisted for a moment as the human searched for the right words.

"You saw the Crucible, all that energy…" Just talking about the terrifying, explosive events of the Reapers' destruction, and the suffering Shepard would likely have endured, was enough to drive her to tears. "There's no way anyone could survive that. Not even Shepard."

"I've given this a lot of thought," Liara replied, somewhat surprised with her enduring patience. "What if she managed to get back to the beam that connected the Citadel with Earth? I haven't slept; I can't shake this feeling that she's still out there. I can feel her in my consciousness, I just…I just know."

"Of course you haven't slept. You loved her – "

"I loved her before Cerberus brought her back. You don't understand, I _knew_ then that she had gone. I knew even before I saw what remained of her body – I couldn't feel her anymore. When she came back, she filled an emptiness in me, as if she were part of my essence, like a piece of your human soul. There are stories," she explained, pacing the small space of her office as Traynor watched, helpless, wary of the doctor's increasingly frantic gestures. "Ancient myths of the asari talk about this. I thought it was only a possibility with another asari, but it can't be, there's something about humans, their minds – you're similar to us in so many ways. I refuse to believe that she's gone. She's alive."

"If you really believe this, why are you telling me? What can I do?"

Liara paused, fixing her clear blue eyes on the human before her. "I need you to help me look for her. We need to get back to Earth."

Traynor shrugged, listless with sorrow. Even if all they found was a pile of dust and bones where the Commander once was, at least it would give them both closure. That image of Shepard rising from the ashes, the idea that her death was not an absolute certainty – to say it was a tantalising, enthralling idea was to understate the full impact her loss had proved to be. "But how are we going to get back? Without the mass relays, it could take us decades. I don't have that sort of time, neither does Shepard."

For the first time in days, Liara felt a smile cross her lips. "I have a lot of data on the relays. I'm quite sure there's a way to fix them – we just have to make sure the Alliance look for the information I gave them before the Reapers attacked."

"I hope you're right," Traynor replied, breathing deeply as she spoke and, now standing, she headed for the door. "Send me what you have on the relays to my omni-tool – I'd rather get out of here sooner than later."

The Specialist left, with a single, swift backwards glance at the asari, leaving the plaque behind her. Liara propped the thin, metallic rectangle against one of her monitors, leaving Traynor's last small, sympathetic gesture unnoticed. She switched on her terminals, bringing the vivid light of a dozen energetic screens back into her small room.

"Hello, Dr T'Soni," a familiar voice droned from the corner of the room, bathing her skin in an electric blue light as the round VI moved gently towards her.

"Glyph, get me all the data we have on the mass relays."

Lines of data, blueprints and calculations filled each screen, one by one. The embers of hope she had maintained since their escape blossomed into a blazing fire, warm and all consuming, just as her work had always been. This day was not for remembrance.


	2. Azrael

The cool, evening summer breeze held in it all the smells of the English countryside, sweet scents that were hitherto unknown to Shepard as she stood, metal crutch in hand, surveying the scene that lay before her. Pale green meadows, their daytime vivacity somewhat dulled in the silvery twilight, flowed in endless blankets before her, untouched by the broad strokes of destruction. If there was one safe haven left in the galaxy, she was sure she had found it – this was the smooth face of Earth, away from the craters and ashes that gutted once great cities and scarred verdant landscapes with slashes of fire. Trees whispered to one another along the breeze, the secrets of the woods, generations old, safe in their charge. It was unnervingly quiet.

She hadn't expected the silence to be problematic; her orders were to recover and recoup her strength, so that she could eventually be of help when she was needed. Two months had stretched into nothingness, and the downtime had moved quickly from restful to maddening. Barring her regular visitors – doctors, soldiers with food parcels, her psychiatrist – there was nothing and no-one to distract her from the worst of her memories; the fallout from her most difficult decisions, those do-or-die moments that strayed into conscious thoughts, the pressure and instability – all of it hung above her head like the sword of Damocles; just a thin, horse-hair of sanity left her clinging to the world.

It seemed it was to be her fate, left alone to consider horrors in a place so nakedly beautiful, without the scant comforts she had eventually taken for granted. Liara would hate this place - too much useless land, nothing much interesting to see or to do. Aesthetics were unimpressive to her; there always had to be something more lurking below the surface, only then would a place be interesting enough to hold her attention for more than a few minutes. She sighed, and the breeze lifted her breath into the darkening evening sky, carrying it away into the stars above until it dispersed into nothingness; Liara was lost to her now – even if, by some miracle, she too had survived. There was no use in reminiscing; she would never again be the person the asari loved, no matter how hard she tried.

Her eyes gazed above, through the turquoise skies dotted with twinkling, distant planets that shone like miniscule diamonds in a vast, velvet cloth, a nightly ritual that had persisted since her childhood days; how she had yearned for the stars then, safely observing through the lens of a simple colonial life. Her name had been written in the stars, once; a small, selfish part of her mind wondered how she would now be remembered. Death was a whitewash where every bad deed or word was cleaned, where every crime was exonerated. Few people spoke ill of the dead, unable to defend themselves as they lay, cold and inanimate, in the dirt beneath their feet – instead, humanity in particular poured their ire into those they could find. The ones left standing, the people at the top who allowed thousands beneath them to perish, whether justified or not: both would bear the brunt of the collective loss of entire races, would bear witness to the forensic analysis of decisions made in the heat and blood of battle, battered by questions until they lost everything or disappeared out of sight, out of mind.

They had no idea what it had taken to save the lives that were left; dwindling remains of once vast civilisations were the timid fruit of her labours, and the price? Innumerable casualties. The loss of entire worlds; entire races wiped out with relative ease and merciless efficiency.

Anderson's life had been the most difficult price to pay. Paralysed with indecision, her head pounded as the Illusive Man's poisonous words beat their rhythms in tandem with the pulsing tendrils of indoctrination snaking through her mind. She should have taken him out while she had the chance, not stood around debating politics, exchanging irrelevant philosophies with a madman. The sight of her arm being raised without her command, the numbness that surrendered her control and pulled the trigger, Anderson's willingness to accept his fate as he faced the barrel of her gun – these were not things that could simply be forgotten. It left a bad taste in her mouth, of burning metal and flesh which burrowed into her mind, tainted everything she saw with the memories of all she lost. Those things would never leave her; the peace of the countryside was no place for a ruined soldier. Her mind buzzed mildly as she slipped into her regular reveries, whirring with what she had assumed were synthetic implants courtesy of her previous employers, though she feared it to be something insidious, something unkind, and it angered her. The extent of the Reapers' indoctrination, and its lasting effects on its victims, had yet to be established. Waiting to see what would happen was beginning to frustrate her, though the military had insisted upon taking it slowly, apparently to maintain her 'good health'. They clearly had not considered her restlessness in this most considerate of approaches, preferring to view her situation from their safe perch, away from the realities of conflict – a theoretical understanding seemed all the top brass had ever been capable of.

Talks with the military psychologist, Dr. Chen, had been less than productive. She had found herself, when faced with his genteel, bespectacled face, nestled underneath a thin sweep of white hair, caught in a different sort of paralysis. Words, which had always come with ease and eloquence, had become impossible to voice, clotting in her throat or escaping only in murmurs. There was too much to discuss, an asari's lifetime of pressures, losses and victories endured in three short years. When she opened her mouth to speak, words faltered; all the terrible events pushed themselves into her conscious mind almost at once, and the terror gripped her relentlessly.

Fear. There was something she hadn't expected in victory; but where the outcome of war was either life or death, life after the war held a plethora of unknowns. She had persisted for so long, drawing courage from those around her where she found herself lacking; now she was here, with the air that smelled too clean to be real, where the quietness mocked her in its serenity.

She turned her back on the world outside, shuffling into the darkened cottage, her crutch clicking with jarring regularity as she moved. This was no place for her.

* * *

The timing of the Illusive Man's death could not have been worse.

Suriel Station, floating in the calm, dark space of the Shadow Sea, away from the prying eyes of Alliance-protected colonists, had been something of a priority project, and cause for a rather bitter envy among Cerberus scientists. Blessed with what could only be described as a truly unlimited budget, this most secret of laboratories had focused its research on the integration of organic and synthetic, producing some of the most sought-after tech both within and outside the organisation. There were rumours, circulated through the usual cell-on-cell snooping that had proved endemic with their operatives, that the Illusive Man himself had once been a project of their skilled surgeons and engineers, the perfect melding of metal and flesh, a shining symbol of the advancement of humankind above all other races.

They were known as the Azrael cell or, more colloquially, the angels of death; all Cerberus synthetics and hybrids were linked to this small, close-knit group of geniuses, and the power of life and death, through the maintenance and control of every synthetic part of their body, was left in their steady, careful hands. For almost ten years, this same group of scientists had maintained a careful watch over their steadily growing flock; only once had they had to intervene directly in the life of a subject, and that was to save him. Though they were curious, unethical even, the ancient Hippocratic oath still fixed itself in their minds, grounding them; it allowed a keen sense of culpability, of perspective. An unexpected death, if nothing else, was a waste of life and resources; far better to save those they could, to reprogram if necessary, rather than cull with unnecessary cruelty.

News of their leader's death had reached them quickly, without any manual intervention. A simple message had found its way to Dr Lanore's terminal, spoken by the man himself:

"_I have failed. You will be persecuted. Go your own way, preserve what you can; for the sake of humanity, continue your work. Remember me."_

Her first thought was that of some elaborate hoax, probably from one of her assistants – Mika had always been annoyingly adept at practical jokes, and his level of tech understanding could only be described as formidable. But she had seen a lot of fakes in her time, even creating some of them herself, and when she considered it again, within a split-second it

became unequivocally real. These were the end times, and it was time to take action.

As if her thoughts alone had willed it, a hive of sirens bleated through the cool air, destroying the peace they had enjoyed. This was it then: Code Black. The training Cerberus had provided for such circumstances didn't quite cover how to deal with a real, tangible fear of death at the hands of your enemies, but it had given her plenty of practice where shooting things were concerned. The desk drawer opened smoothly as her hand hovered above it; a gleaming, unused pistol lay waiting inside. There had been no news of a breach, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

A voice sounded in her earpiece. "Lanore? Are you there? What just happened?"

"Gather everyone in the mess hall Mika. Quickly!"

The small crowd of specialists surrounded the few tables the mess hall had been furnished was, and it looked less sparse that it usually did. Most of them spent little time here, absorbed in their important work of galactic consequence, so it was odd to see it so full of people. As she approached, she was surprised to see that only a few of them appeared to be holding pistols like hers, fiddling nervously with them, clearly uncomfortable – she had thought all staff were given a standard-issue pistol, for their own protection. It was probable that only a couple of the other doctors had knowledge of the Illusive Man's death but, as the de facto leader of the Azrael cell, it fell to her to break the news and maintain order. Their collective, quiet mutterings hushed as she stood before them, her finger resting on the trigger of the gun that she held by her thigh; it provided little comfort.

"As a few of you will have been made aware, the Illusive Man has been killed," she declared, attempting a neutral tone that disguised the sadness and fear creeping into her mind. "I received a message approximately ten minutes ago stating this – the sirens have now been silenced, as you can hear, and this station needs to stay hidden. We have already sustained heavy losses in our shock troop divisions, and it is our job to stop any more fatalities while we can."

"We're on our own now," she continued, her audience silenced by shock and grief; the loss of their heroic leader would be a hard one to overcome. "But, as I know you'll agree, we need to continue our work. The work is of paramount importance. To do this, we need supplies – food, water, materials for repairs, fuel cell material…the list is long, but not unachievable. Wilson, how much time have we got before our generators stop?"

"A month, maybe six weeks," he said, his voice strained as he calculated and recalculated familiar formulae in his mind. "If we power down, we can route our juice to where it's needed most."

A murmur of agreement followed, the last easy decision before the hard ones presented themselves. What were they willing to sacrifice – who were they willing to kill, for the greater good? In the wake of the Reapers' destruction, fuel was going to be hard to come by, and fatalities would be a necessary evil.

"The first priority has to be Lazarus," a small, English doctor called out, the butt of his gun just visible in his labcoat. "We swore to protect her, for humanity's sake."

"But Earth is safe now," another piped up. "She's not needed anymore – why should she be prioritised above anyone else? What good is she to us now?"

A row threatened to break out, the good natured murmur of agreement dissipated by hostility and a clash of moral compasses.

"Dr Langley, Dr Marshall – each of your concerns will be considered in due course. We're not at life or death at the moment, please let us at least save those discussions until they are needed."

Neither of them replied, though they took pains to shuffle slightly away from each other, like two small boys protesting at a scolding from their mother. Lanore took a deep, cleansing breath, unconcerned by the small crowd of scientists and engineers that watched her raise a tired hand to her brow.

"Meetings will be held. We need to establish a contingency plan, so let's get that done first. I will not jeopardise everything we have created because of a few petty arguments. Langley, Wilson, Richards, Greenbank, Mika – all of you come with me. The rest of you, please return to your usual tasks. The show must go on."


	3. Aftermath

A sullen, stunned peace had fallen upon the galaxy in the Reapers' wake; each race was concerned with their own losses, the weight of mourning heavy upon their shoulders as they rebuilt from the ruins, their people as battered and broken as their desolate homeworlds. There was something so simplistic, organic, in the way each society handled their situation – a sort of grim perseverance had possessed them all, allowing a laser-like focus to their tired efforts, fostering a camaraderie amongst all echelons of each society that had surprised the few at the top as much as the many at the bottom. For most of them, after the first few stones were lifted and ashes swept into the gasping breeze, a hint of normality was returned - a tantalising glimpse of a peaceful future, a reason to work their fingers to the bone.

Shepard envied them. Free from culpability, they could continue their lives, were given the chance to move past the devastation and put it behind them while she was left in the horrific past, stagnating, slowly driven mad with inaction and uncertainty. Her stasis had removed all sense of time, barring the inevitable sunrise and sunset that marked each Earth day; she floated in the ether, frozen, waiting in solitary silence for the call she knew was coming one day, for the barrage of questions that would lead her to an admission of guilt, warranted or not. There had been no time for interrogation, pre-occupied as they were with repairing the damage, but she knew the Alliance would not shy away from court-martialling her – especially as she had still not technically answered the charges they had originally brought her in for. Eventually, her time would come – risen from the ashes of Earth, she would stand again, alone. Always alone in the face of her deeds; the crew would be spared the indignity of a trial, she was sure of that. A glinting, silver lining to a very dark cloud.

A memory of Liara surfaced from a pool of idle thoughts; a blur of laughter, her soft voice talking passionately of the Prothean ruins of Therum – blue eyes wide with admiration, quickly looking at the floor as she returned the asari's warm smile. Shepard was bolder, reaching for the warm hand resting next to hers, locking their fingers together; Liara's voice faltered, distracted. She didn't pull away – she squeezed the Commander's hand, grateful for the comfort and safety she provided, the confident woman of a simpler past. A curious memory to retain, given that most of what they had was all but lost to her now; those eyes, and the smile that illuminated them, were the only thing Shepard had left. The precise moment she had forgotten the details of Liara's face had long since passed, and now the rest of her was blank, isolated, untraceable - the only woman she had ever truly loved, consigned to an ancient memory of a past life. She wondered if Liara could remember her, wherever she was - if there was one thing in all this that gave her faith in her own fortune, it was the thought that she was alive, somewhere. She might not have been able to trace the asari's face, but in some way she imagined she could feel something of her inside, a shard of hope that cut through the scream of nightmares, a bond that reached across the emptiness of dark space to caress her cheek and release her from the cold reality she had been forced into.

Sometimes she laughed at her own sentimentality.

A knock came at the door, sharp strikes of bone on wood that echoed through dusty air - it rattled through her tired mind, leaving her with an unpleasant hum that seemed to vibrate through her entire body, rippling from top to bottom like a struck tuning fork. She didn't answer it, didn't move from the single, hard-backed chair she had been granted, her back to the window, didn't raise her head to lift herself out of tired reverie. Nobody that was anybody had knocked at her door; whether she liked it or not, it was always open.

It was Admiral Hackett who entered, uniform pressed and smooth, brass buttons gleaming with immaculate authority in the hazy glow of the afternoon sun. The man underneath the cloth and shining medals was worn, reaching the end of a hard fought span of existence; another soldier wracked with war stories, written across the lines and scars that left a dull, pink trail on his face from cheek to temple. Despite his experience, an entire life of military service to draw upon for inspiration, he had long-dreaded the moment he was about to face. It was another battle he had fought, for her sake; a wary offer of gratitude in place of death, a way to forget without having to forgive, the best conclusion to a terrible situation.

The cases for execution, both in secret and public, had been compelling. Political scientists had constructed scenarios of the future, painting a bleak picture of a galaxy at peace, yet divided - a galaxy where self-preservation became the absolute priority, a black and white perspective that devalued the worth of other races wherever necessary. In this world, peace was on a knife edge; war would be just a careless footstep away. And the humans? Pariahs of the milky way, more willing to conceal the most prolific war criminal of recent years than bring her to justice, their virtue shot to pieces and left to bleed to death.

They branded her a terrorist, and the evidence seemed incontrovertible - humanity had rarely, if ever, bore the brunt of her carelessness: they had benefited from it. From sheer numbers alone, they were the most prevalent of the council races left in the galaxy, out numbering the Turians, Asari and Salarians by about five to one. If they handled this right, the prosecutor argued, humanity could easily step in as galactic leaders, finally allowing them the power and influence they deserved. It took decades after the First Contact War for humanity to be afforded so much as a sideways glance, and even longer to be given a seat on the council - a hungry, blackened revenge gleamed in the eyes of the admiralty, the generals, the guards at the door. Forever the victim, finally the victor.

It was with difficulty, and great personal and professional sacrifice, that Hackett had managed to dissuade the most influential members of military command from killing Anderson's progeny. In all their grand schemes of power and revenge, the Admiral argued, they had forgotten the one thing they wished to protect - humanity. The execution of a war hero, a woman who was responsible for every breath drawn by every survivor, would be a catastrophic blow to the Alliance ranks; desertion would rocket, soldiers would rebel and all hell would break loose. They'd tried to disgrace her once before, and failed - to act with such callous cruelty now would be suicidal. As ever, arguments weren't enough; a great many favours had been agreed and fulfilled, promises and debts that were decades old had been settled - he had nothing left, there was no more blood to be squeezed from the stone to save the woman before him. The judgement was the best he could do – it wasn't what he wanted for her, but it was a damn sight better than death.

When he saw her face, tired, scarred like his own, frozen in the horror of war, the pleasantries he had mentally prepared dissolved into good intentions. There was no point - it wouldn't soften the blow and, sincerity aside, it'd be the first time they'd exchanged polite greetings on an equal footing. Admirals did not ask their subordinates how they are; he forgot himself from time to time, a sign of age and exhaustion, he supposed. The people he knew always burrowed their way under his skin, in one way or another.

"Shepard, we're deploying you to a classified location within the Terminus systems. The moment your shuttle lands, you're no longer of the Alliance military." The voice he heard didn't sound like his own, harsh and cold, terse and uncaring. He never did like authority, thought it unimportant based on it's own merit, never liked the substitution of compassion with calculus – sacrifice the few to save the many. And now, here he stood, taking what little was left of her life and burning it to ashes. He had thought, in a moment of wishful illusion, that perhaps this was a 'thank you', to give her the chance of true peace in a place she would never be bothered. It had recently become clear that this could not be further from the truth.

Shepard laughed softly, a sad smile hidden just beneath the tight lips that had forgotten the effect of happiness a long time ago. She had not considered this eventuality - exile seemed too genteel for the brass. Lucky escape, for both parties.

"Sir, I saved your ass out there -"

"And I saved yours in return. After the shit you've done, most of the admiralty wanted you dead - publicly executed, vids streamed live to the grieving across the galaxy. Do you have any idea how long it's going to take us to regain any sense of credibility with the other races?"

She stood now, her eyes almost on level with Hackett's grey irises, worn and tired like the last dregs of a morning mist; if she was being forcibly retired, she may as well let him know exactly what she thought of him and his spineless human Alliance.

"I know it took a Reaper invasion for you and your fucking blind Alliance to pay me any god damned attention! How many billions, trillions of lives could have been saved if you had just _believed_ me after Ilos, instead of treating me like some raving lunatic?"

"Stand down, soldier," Hackett replied, calm in the face of her insubordination.

A smirk, derisive and unexpected, finally found its way to her mouth, leaving a cynical smile that left her madness open to the world. To hell with it all.

"I'm not a soldier, admiral; I'm a dead woman walking. A fucking miracle."

"You'd be a pile of ashes if I hadn't intervened. Now get your things, and get outside; you might not feel like a soldier anymore, but until you're out of my hands you're still part of the Alliance. Step out of line like that again and I'll leave you to the few dozen Batarians left out there – they're baying for _your _blood Shepard, not mine. Do I make myself clear?"

The rage that had so quickly rushed to her mind had subsided; she bottled a scream, saved it for later, took a step back from the Hackett's rigid posture. The room swayed a little before her as a sudden pain throbbed behind her eyes, the light of the fading sun becoming white hot as a wave of weakness fell upon her, sending her to her knees. A shadow slipped from underneath her, dust glinting in the air above.

"Shepard, are you alright?"

She heard his voice, wavering, undulating and muted, underwater and miles away. Her head dropped to the cool wooden floor, the old floorboards bending a little to accommodate her. The darkness was coming and, for the first time she could remember, she didn't fear it.

Slipping away with time, instead of fighting the violent current; she closed her eyes and floated away, lost in a world of blank unconsciousness. Free from herself, at last.


End file.
